


this is not a sitcom-- this is not a prison

by madrox (ramathorne)



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: ??? I GUESS, Asphyxiation, Blood, M/M, Swearing, brief mentions of suicidal tendencies, handjobs, intercrural, spoilers for spider-man/deadpool from #4 onwards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 05:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8192297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramathorne/pseuds/madrox
Summary: in which that scene with the glass house bomb and the patient zero thing goes a little differently.alternative summary: 4k of peter choking wade (who really really likes it) while angstily going, 'oh nooo, he's hooooot'.spoiler alert for spider-man/deadpool #4 and onwards.





	

**Author's Note:**

> tfw you and your bff find out you both have an asphyxiation kink and they bully you into writing the thing by saying over and over, 'i support you and want you to do what makes you happy' until you actually do the thing.
> 
> then when you try to confess your sins to your other friend they do nothing but enable you, god damn it, because apparently you're all just going to hell anyway.
> 
> please let me know if i need to tag anything else. i am bad at tagging because i suppress all emotions like a functionally sound adult and forget that there are some things people like to be warned about. thank you.

“You let him get away!” Wade says, heatedly.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Peter snaps back, and when Wade's body begins to heal and drip glass shards from above like red, slightly dangerous rain, he leans away from the stray pieces in disgust. “I guess I should have subjected more than just your butt to The House of Flying Glass.”

“ _Yes_ , you should have,” Wade says, venomously; and were his ass not stuck to the ceiling of their impromptu glass web dome, the ire in his voice might have carried more weight. “Because my _immortal ass_ can heal from Gauntilda's little stunt, unlike about 90% of the Earth's current population, and _you_ let him get away--”

“Oh,” Peter scoffs, “ _Now_ you care about the innocent--”

“Wow, okay, _don't_ ,” Wade interjects, jabbing a violent finger into Peter's face. “I know you're pissed, alright, I get it, but don't you _fucking_ do that.”

“And why not?”

“Because I'm _trying?_ ” Wade shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “Because I've been trying to play by _your_ rules? I know this is a big shocker, but I don't actually go around killing innocent people--” Which Peter sputters at, calls _bull_ on, by the way, _he calls bull so hard_ , yanks Wade out of the ceiling by his outstretched fingers and slams him straight into the floor, shrapnel tinkling around them and Wade screaming in a hoarse yelp, “Owshit _GLASSINSPINE_ \--” before Peter jams his knee straight into Wade's throat, makes the merc under him gurgle and clutch at his thigh.

“Is _that_ what you're telling yourself?!” Peter snarls into Wade's spluttering mask. “ 'I don't go around killing innocent people'? You went behind my _back_ , Wade! You snooped around my workplace, you made me think we were _friends--”_

“I didn't--” Wade starts, his voice strangled, and Peter digs the bone of his kneecap even further down, earning a shuddering gasp.

“Pardon my Canadian French,” Peter says, “But you're a fucking asshole. And a liar. You killed _Parker_ ,” he points out, emphatically-- maybe a little too emphatically, but it was only a few days ago he'd woken up in a cold sweat with nightmares ( _memories_ ) of his blood and brains splattering over his bedsheets, so if he's feeling a bit frenetic he thinks he can probably be forgiven for it. “You killed Parker _twice_!”

“I was _wrong!”_ Wade growls, thumping hard on Peter's leg, “I thought I was doing right by you!”

“Doing _right_ by _me_!?” He's been resisting the urge to throttle the merc so far, but those words leave Wade's mouth and he just-- he just has to shake him a little, and the bare patch of Wade's face he can see goes deathly pale and his hands clench into the meat of Peter's thigh, begging him to let up. “If you really wanted to do right by me, why did you _use_ me, Wade?!”

There's a shocked, pained noise that bubbles out of Wade, and then-- silence. The vicegrip he's got going on Peter loosens just enough, and Peter breathes. One, two, three.

Calm down. He needs to calm down.

His chest is too tight and his head is swimming and he can't stop thinking how Wade--

“--You used me,” he says, finally, and doesn't bother trying to hide how stung he feels, because by now he's pretty sure he probably can't. “Did you even _want_ to be friends?”

Wade doesn't answer, not right away. He's not even _looking_ at Peter, he thinks, which pisses him off. There's nothing else for Wade to be looking at right now, save the death machine humming threateningly at them in the center of the dome, but he's not even staring at that-- his face turned up to the ceiling and his breath coming in these short, angry little pants.

“I didn't,” he grits out. _Oh look_ , Peter thinks. _A knife in my front to match the one he drove into my back._ “I _don't_. I'm sorry.”

“Liar,” Peter hisses, crushes the air out of Wade's windpipe and makes him wheeze. “Look at me right in the eyes and tell me you're not lying,” he challenges, and Wade _tenses_ underneath him, but doesn't move otherwise. “Oh for-- look at me!” he growls, and yanks Wade's mask away, because he wants to look at him; _really_ look at him in the way he knows Wade doesn't like--

\--but something's different. Something is very, very different.

Peter's expecting the Wade he knows-- twisted, scarred, _familiar._ He's not ready for flawless pale skin, not sweat and blood soaked blond hair draping forward into wide, blue, ( _so blue_ ) eyes.

He's not ready for the dark blush coloring that eerily familiar, handsome face.

“Wade, what the _fuck_ ,” Peter stutters, anger and hurt taking a back seat to his very reasonable reaction of _complete and utter shock_. In his surprise, his knee slips down, presses harder, and this short, ragged noise hiccups its way out of the merc beneath him. Peter _feels_ rather than sees the way his throat muscles shift frantically around his knee, fighting to function; watches the burning flush creep Wade's neck, the way his blue, blue eyes roll up into the back of his head for a moment. He gurgles out a noise that Peter realizes (in horror) might have been a moan, which. Is _so_ not okay right now.

Even less okay is the thrill that worms its way through Peter's gut at the sound.

“ _Wade_ ,” Peter hisses, but the merc shakes his head, leans hard against the crushing pressure of his knee; holds Peter in place with a grip that could and would bruise anyone else. A desperate noise keens out of him, like he's in pain still, like he's going to die-- _wants_ to die like this, with his life in Spider-Man's hands. And even though _Deadpool's_ wont for death is a little less traumatizing and a lot less permanent than other people's, Peter feels a little-- okay, a _lot_ \-- like someone's throwing a bucket of ice cold water on him to keep him from burning inside out. He feels like he's a, a freshly broken Icy-Hot pack; and yes, those _are_ the best descriptions he can come up with right now, thank you very much, he was a photographer and not a reporter for a _reason_.

“You-- do you _want_ this,” Peter asks, because it was supposed to be a question, supposed to be disgusted, but his eyes are bulging under the mask, boring a hole into this disturbingly symmetrical face Wade is wearing. To his ears his own voice is hoarse, like _he's_ the one being choked; like he's the one who can't breathe. “You actually _want_ this?” he whispers, and Wade's whole body jerks underneath him, whines out an affirmative. Thin trickles of blood and bits of glass dribble out of his mouth, over those full, perfect lips, and somewhere in Peter's head a voice that sounds disturbingly like Jameson's roars _Parker, this is not the time to be waxing poetic about your apparently suicidal, ex-no-bromo-friend, no matter_ how _plush his mouth looks--_ which, okay, true. There are _many_ other things to be addressing right now.

Things like how he doesn't appreciate being manipulated into friendship just so Wade could sneak around and murder certain high-profile secret identities. Or things like how the merc's apparently gone from _Wretched Wade_ to _Winsome Wade_ since the last time Peter saw him; or even, oh, he doesn't know-- how they are literally in a life-or-death situation _this very moment_ , and if Wade didn't let Peter figure out how to reverse the stupid glass-magnet machine's stupid glass-magnet power soon, Peter was going to be too _dead_ (again) to figure out _how the fuck to run away from this,_ this bafflingly handsome stranger he somehow knows all too well.

But Wade's just _looking_ at him, eyes hooded and his pupils blown, huge and dark with the thinnest ring of brilliant blue around them, strands of unkempt hair sticking to the perfect slope of his cheekbones, throat clicking helplessly as he sucks in shallow, frantic breaths. A bead of sweat rolls off of his forehead, disappearing into the pale curls of his sideburn, and that thrill rips through Peter again, coils deep inside. Makes his heart squeeze a little too tight and his whole body feel pinched and small, like he's back in high school; a gangly, awkward teenager, catching the eye of the most beautiful girl in class.

He sinks his weight forward and down, pinning Wade solidly to the floor; the thin line of his shin flush against Wade's pounding heart. Wade stiffens; his mouth goes slack, and Peter swears that it skips one, maybe _five_ beats under the pressure. His eyes, still dark, glaze over, and even though he's still looking in Peter's general direction, he gets the feeling that Wade isn't really able to _see_ him right now.

He minds a lot less than he had before.

“You weren't kidding,” Peter breathes. “You weren't kidding about--” _about getting off on me being like_ this _._

Wade shakes his head again, as well as he can under the circumstances. His face is starting to go an alarming shade of purple so Peter lets up, just for a moment, and watches in fascination as the color drains from his face with every heaving, gasping breath.

 _Oh no_ , he thinks. He pulls his leg away and Wade chases it _forward_ , craning towards it. _Oh_ no _,_ Peter repeats internally, giddy with hysteria. _Oh no, oh no._

His eyebrows draw together when he realizes that Peter really _is_ pulling back; squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw hard around the quiet, abandoned moan he can't seem to keep from shaking out of his bloodstained teeth. He digs his fingers into the hard floor beneath them and Peter can't stop _staring_ , can't stop looking at that face, and when he sees the thin, black covered hand reaching down to wrap snugly around the merc's throat it doesn't quite process that it's his very own flesh and blood.

Wade's eyes fly back open, what little breath he's regained stuttering out of his chest as Peter settles down a little heavier on top of him. His free hand traces one long thumb along the edge of Wade's mouth; and even through the fabric of his suit he can tell it's just as smooth as it looks. It's not an image inducer. It's _Wade_.

 _He used to be so pretty_ , Peter thinks, in a daze, and very gently tightens his grip around the merc's neck. Wade's pulse jumps under his fingers and he hisses out a curse, bucks his hips up, the hard curve of his cock in kevlar against the cleft of Peter's ass informing him wordlessly that, _yes_ , Wade was very pretty and _very_ into what was happening right now; so Peter squeezes harder and Wade arches so fast his head cracks into the linoleum from the sheer force of it, the corded muscles of his throat bulging against Peter's fingers, and then he coughs out bloodied shards of _glass_ that go skittering across the floor.

Oops.

“Oh geez,” Peter fumbles out, quailing back because _right, life or death situation,_ there was no way that was okay. “Oh shit--” How had he forgotten about the _goddamn glass_ embedded in every bit of Wade's body, and he's about to spring the fuck off of him, when Wade yanks him back into place, one hand wrapping Peter's tightly around his neck and the other clamping down on his waist to make him _stay_ there. He presses Peter down at the same time his hips cant up, eyes focused and blazing blue in the florescent light filtering into their glass and web prison.

“If you stop,” Wade growls, “I _will_ kill you.” His voice is thick with blood and lust (separately-- Peter is 80% positive on that), and Peter feels like he should be taking offense. He really, really should.

“You're not really in a position to be making threats,” he replies, softly, his voice unnervingly calm despite the quaver he can feel in it.

“I'll kill _myself_ ,” Wade threatens, and it's a shitty threat in more ways than one, but it doesn't pack the punch he seems to want; not when he's looking at Peter with those Sandals Lagoon Resort blue ( _a better attempt, but still awful_ , the voice in his head sneers) eyes of his, full of uncertainty and desire and fear of _something_ , Peter doesn't know. Of what was happening right now? Of Peter?

Of Peter _leaving_? And just like that, the pads of Wade's fingers twitch instinctively against his side as if he knows Peter is _thinking_ about pulling away.

 _Leaving_ , Peter decides, and his stomach twists just at the thought of it, even if he's still confused and frankly kind of about to cry; not because he's _sad_ , per se, but because he's just-- so _mad_ , right now, _so_ mad at Wade, and just because he can he digs his fingers in _tight_ , clamps them around the thick fabric and muscle at the base of Wade's throat.

Wade makes this choked-off noise, his whisper-thin lashes fluttering as his eyes do that _thing_ again, rolling up into his skull as his mouth falls open in a silent cry; and it's not _fair_ how hot he is, what the fuck!

“I can't believe you,” Peter informs him, shakily. “You are _so messed up_ , do you know that?”

He presses his other palm flat against the merc's huge, heaving chest-- feels his heartbeat jackhammering in time with his own rapid pulse. Traps Wade's cock between his asscheeks and _squeezes_ at the same time he does the same to his neck, feels Wade try to scream, clawing at his arms like he can't remember how to hold on.

And that just makes Peter all the more bold, so he doesn't stop himself when he asks, roughly, “Does she ever-- with you?” _Smooth, Parker_.

Wade doesn't even _care,_ looking up at him like he can't quite believe this is happening, like he thinks he's dreaming and he's afraid of waking up. “No,” he wheezes. “No, no--”

“Don't _lie_ to me—”

“ _No_ ,” Wade pants, desperately, his face flushed dark from strain and sex. If he had any breath left Peter thinks he might have _wailed_. “No, I never asked-- I never wanted...” His mouth and throat work soundlessly and he arches under Peter again, hands gesturing jerkily in a crude imitation of ASL. _Never wanted her like-- like--_

 _Never wanted her like_ this _,_ Peter finishes, and the realization hits him in a dizzying rush. _He never wanted his wife like he wants me._

Peter scoots forward, loosening his grip around Wade's neck; kneeling so his legs bracket either side of his chest and his knees hit the tile. He ignores how cold his thighs feel now that they're not pressed against Wade's scorching body heat and instead leans back, hand searching.

“What...” Wade croaks, and he cracks one bloodshot eye (no, more than bloodshot eye-- his sclera is _red_ , Peter made him burst a _blood vessel_ ) open to peer at Peter's curious behavior. “What-- what are you doing?”

“I saw my name on your stupid top 5 list,” Peter says. Wade stares at him, unable to process the jump Peter's made here-- probably unable to really process _words_ right now, but after a while, it dawns on him. For the briefest moment, when the merc closes his eyes, he looks pained in a way he hadn't since Peter drove a knee into his throat.

“Yeah,” he says. Just that-- yeah, period, nothing else. There are no excuses, no lies-- not that they would have done him any good now, but the simple, soft admission makes Peter's heart jump into his throat.

“At the bottom,” he says, thickly, “What was it?” And when Wade gives him that blank look, “The _asterisk_ , Wade. You only got to sleep with me if-- what?”

Wade looks away.

“Wade,” Peter pleads, his voice finally catching. “ _Please_.”

“If you made the first move,” Wade says, the strained, bitter words echoing around the curves of their self-imposed cage. He turns back to look at Peter with those guileless blue eyes, the white leaking slowly back into the left one as it heals. “She said I could sleep with you,” he laughs, and the defeated timbre of it has Peter's heart dropping out of his throat and down into the pit of his stomach-- “But only if you made the first move.”

Shiklah never thought he'd do it.

No, Shiklah was _counting_ on it, Peter realizes. There was no other name on that list that had to have a freaking _asterisk_ like Spider-Man's had. She knew that Peter was a _threat_.

 _I didn't want to be your friend,_ echoes Wade's words in his mind. _I_ don't _want to be your friend._

 _I want_ more _than that,_ Wade's saying, and Peter's-- okay, he cannot handle that, there are _so_ many things they need to be talking about and if he thinks about them all at once he's going to implode, probably, so. One thing at a time.

He reaches down behind him, slowly, and unzips Wade's pants, the noise cutting through the silence. Wade startles.

Peter's face cracks into a guilty, mean little smile, glad that the merc can't see him.

_Shiklah was afraid of this._

And just like that Peter feels strangely _empty_ , like he's been robbed of something, but the more he thinks about that goddamn list, the more that hollow little place inside of him fills with an ugly, seething, vindictive rage. He's still mad at Wade, don't get him wrong-- and he's got lots of 'splaining to do, but whatever _this_ is between them is finally _happening, and_ it's the most alive Peter's felt in years, _years_ of feeling weirdly like something's been _taken_ from him, like he'd never be whole again, and Wade's never really stopped _looking_ at Peter from under that messy fringe of hair plastering itself to his forehead; his face too open, too used to wearing a mask to hide the hurt and shame in it. Just the sight of it scrapes Peter's insides raw.

“What are you--?” He asks, again.

“Giving you a free pass,” Peter answers, and brings Wade's forehead to his own as his fingers slip inside the slit of his boxers to grip at the merc's cock.

Wade bucks violently and something that sounds suspiciously like ' _ohsweetbeabyarthurjesus_ ' garbles its way out of his mouth. He clutches at Peter's hips like they're the only thing tethering him to this world.

“Ow,” Peter points out, laughing breathlessly, but if he's being honest, he doesn't really care. Wade's hands squeeze one more time anyway before he lifts them to wrap around Peter's waist, clinging for dear life as the other folds into him, pressing their fronts together. He lets Wade fuck him that way, a thick, hot line sliding against the sensitive flesh just behind his balls; thrusting between his spread legs and into the tight 'O' of his hand.

“Oh fuck, Spides--oh fuckohfuckoh _fuck_ ,” Wade hisses viciously, over and over, and Peter's own long-ignored arousal rears its fearsome head; strains his cock so hard against the curve of his protective cup at the sound of the merc's broken, choked-off moans that he can't pretend he doesn't feel it any longer; that he hasn't been throbbing with aching need ever since he witnessed first hand what he's capable of doing to Wade.

He's barely halfway through the pained, wanting noise in his throat when Wade rips off a glove and shoves it neatly down the front of his suit, past his cup _and_ his briefs, which he's going to ask about _later_ , because the seam for the top and bottom half of this costume is _very_ precise and hard to find, but right now he chokes out a sob of relief when Wade's big, callused hand palms him roughly; gives him something to rut against as muscular fingers stretch past his length to fondle his drawn-up testes. His slack-jawed, glazed over look of concentration is as irritatingly handsome up close as it is from far away, and Peter counts every wrinkle in his furrowed brow. He has to stop his genius self-- several times-- from trying to lean in and press his mask-covered face to Wade's glass covered mouth.

“I'm close,” Peter whispers, when it gets to be too much, when it's too overwhelming to feel Wade's heat all around him, pooling (ha-- not the _time_ , Parker!) into every crevice of his body as the merc jerks him off with mind-numbing efficiency. Wade grinds his thumb mercilessly into the head of Peter's cock, right against the bottom of the slit and he gasps, arching hard into his hand. “ _I'm gonna_ \--”

“--choke me,” Wade begs, in response, and by the way, Peter is ruined for _life_ if those two words are really what's going to be sending him over the edge, cursing and bucking into the feeling of Wade's fingers digging into his cock, his body curling over and jerking with every pump of cum that spurts out of him and spills over the merc's wrist. He rides out the first couple waves, unable to really do anything but helplessly grind into the pressure for a few seconds, trying to figure out which part of his body his brain slopped out of his head into, so he can force it into functioning properly.

Wade's groan is downright filthy when Peter finally complies, grabbing him by the throat and squeezing hard over the thick tendons with widespread fingers. His cock fucks into Peter's other hand with jagged, desperate thrusts, one arm clamped tight around the hero's upper back and his head tilting into Peter's space, gasping wetly into Peter's ear in ragged intervals; his Adam's apple bobbing furiously under Peter's palm as he struggles against the grip Peter has on him.

“Webs _,_ ” his rough voice rasps-- Peter's cursed brain gropes for another metaphor, “Fuck, _please_ \--” _like scraping tree bark against sandpaper,_ he settles on, because that's the best he's probably going to get.

Peter pushes him down then, lies on top and slides back so he can grip Wade from the front, bracing his weight onto the merc's neck as he leans forward.

“Yesss _sss_ ,” Wade hisses, and Peter bites down quietly on the moan that almost escapes him when he buries his fingers in the merc's short, unkempt hair at the nape of his neck, because of course Wade just _had_ to be blond, Peter's always had a weak spot for blonds. He curls one claw around Wade's length and scrapes a careful trail up the underside; makes the merc scream noiselessly for a moment, thrashing under him. He holds Wade down and jerks him off, fast and relentless, reveling in the way Wade spasms every time his fingers catch on the head of his cock on the up stroke, in the way his voice rasps and his fingers clutch at the ridges of muscle in Peter's back.

He feels something like wonder as he strokes his thumb over the peachfuzz where Wade's jaw meets his neck, presses it into the hollow he finds there and Wade makes this soft, choked noise, says that he's oh fuck _coming--_ canting up into the dark, warm space between them; hips juttering up in uneven, clumsy thrusts as his dick pulses in Peter's grip and spurts hotly all over his belly, and Peter just _watches_ , watches his fucked up friend (ex-friend? Crush? He doesn't know anymore) come apart underneath him, familiar expressions on a not-so familiar, disturbingly symmetrical face.

He comes back into himself, to Wade patting frantically at his hand and startles-- releases his grip so the other can suck in a huge, shuddering breath. “Sorry,” he tries to say, tries to scramble back, but Wade just fumbles for him, gasping for air like he can't get enough of it; he pulls Peter down by the head to prop him against his thundering heartbeat, petting his head and rubbing circles into his back.

Peter feels the tight ball of tension he didn't realize was in his chest melt into relief and he sinks himself into Wade's warmth; wills himself not to cry because he's in his _twenties_ , for god's sake, he started his own company and he's fought aliens _several times_  and he's _not_ going to cry like an emotionally unstable teenager who just lost their innocence at prom. He knows they both know they still have to talk about this, and _that_ , and probably a million _other_ things, and before that he's going to actually have to get up and disable the glass-magnet machine of _death,_ but--

“Holy shit, I think I jizzed _glass,_ ” Wade informs him, his voice still raw, and Peter can't quite smother the laugh that garbles out of him.

\--he thinks maybe talking won't be so bad.

 

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thanks for reading. writing is hard for my shitty brain but i really do enjoy sharing it with you all. (just don't get too close, i am actual human garbage.)
> 
> i have a [tumblr](http://dojo-casino.tumblr.com) now, and sometimes i'll get off my ass to post fanart. i also still have my [twitter](http://twitter.com/r4mathorne), if you'd like to come by and say hi at either.


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